Six to Sixteen | Page 8

objects in the room, and a
ray lighted up my father's face, and showed a change that even I could
see. An officer standing at the head of the bed saw it also, and said
abruptly, "He's dead, Buller." And the Major, starting up, took me in
his arms, and carried me away.
I cried and struggled. I had a dim sense of what had happened, mixed
with an idea that these men were separating me from my father. I could
not be pacified till Mr. Abercrombie held out his arms for me. He was
more like a woman, and he was crying as well as I. I went to him and
buried my sobs on his shoulder. Mr. George (as I had long called him,
from finding his surname hard to utter) carried me into the passage and
walked up and down, comforting me.
"Is Papa really dead?" I at length found voice to ask.
"Yes, Margery dear. I'm so sorry."
"Will he go to Abraham's bosom, Mr. George?"
"Will he go where, Margery?"
"To Abraham's bosom, you know, where the poor beggar went that's
lying on the steps in my Sunday picture-book, playing with those dear
old dogs."

Mr. Abercrombie's knowledge of Holy Scripture was, I fear, limited.
Possibly my remarks recalled some childish remembrance similar to
my own. He said, "Oh yes, to be sure. Yes, dear."
"Do you think the dogs went with the poor beggar?" I asked. "Do you
think the angels took them too?"
"I don't know," said Mr. George. "I hope they did."
There was a pause, and then I asked, in awe-struck tones, "Will the
angels fetch Papa, do you think?"
Mr. George had evidently decided to follow my theological lead, and
he replied, "Yes, Margery dear."
"Shall you see them?" I asked.
"No, no, Margery. I'm not good enough to see angels."
"I think you're very good," said I. "And please be good, Mr. George,
and then the angels will fetch you, and perhaps me, and Mamma, and
perhaps Ayah, and perhaps Bustle, and perhaps Clive." Bustle was Mr.
Abercrombie's dog, and Clive was a mastiff, the dog of the regiment,
and a personal friend of mine.
"Very well, Margery dear. And now you must be good too, and you
must let me take you to bed, for it's morning now, and I have had no
sleep at all."
"Is it to-morrow now?" I asked; "because, if it's to-morrow, it's my
birthday." And I began to cry afresh, because Papa had promised that I
should dine with him, and had promised me a present also.
"I'll give you a birthday present," said my long-suffering friend; and he
began to unfasten a locket that hung at his watch-chain. It was of Indian
gold, with forget-me-nots in turquoise stones upon it. He opened it and
pulled out a photograph, which he tore to bits, and then trampled
underfoot.

"There, Margery, there's a locket for you; you can throw it into the fire,
or do anything you like with it. And I wish you many happy returns of
the day." And he finally fastened it round my neck with his
Trichinopoli watch-chain, leaving his watch loose in his
waistcoat-pocket. The locket and chain pleased me, and I suffered him
to carry me to bed. Then, as he was parting from me, I thought of my
father again, and asked:
"Do you think the angels have fetched Papa now, Mr. George?"
"I think they have, Margery."
Whereupon I cried myself to sleep. And this was my sixth birthday.
CHAPTER III.
THE BULLERS--MATILDA TAKES ME UP--WE FALL OUT--MR.
GEORGE.
Major Buller took me home to his house after my father's death. My
father had left his affairs in his hands, and in those of a friend in
England--the Mr. Arkwright he had spoken of. I believe they were both
trustees under my mother's marriage settlement.
The Bullers were relations of mine. Mrs. Buller was my mother's
cousin. She was a kind-hearted, talkative lady, and good-looking,
though no longer very young. She dressed as gaily as my poor mother,
though, somehow, not with quite so good an effect. She copied my
mother's style, and sometimes wore things exactly similar to hers; but
the result was not the same. I have heard Mrs. Minchin say that my
mother took a malicious pleasure, at times, in wearing costumes that
would have been most trying to beauty less radiant and youthful than
hers, for the fun of seeing "poor Theresa" appear in a similar garb with
less success. But Mrs. Minchin's tales had always a sting in them!
Mrs. Buller received me very kindly. She kissed me, and told me to call
her "Aunt Theresa," which I did ever afterwards. Aunt Theresa's
daughters and I were like sisters. They showed me their